Paxton's War by Kerry Newcomb Page A

His face breaking into a smile, he dismounted, removed his glove, and extended his hand. “Well done, Captain Tregoning. And welcome to South Carolina. It’s the arsehole of the world, but we’ve a job to do, eh?”
    â€œThank you, sir,” Peter replied, inwardly wincing. “May I present my friend, Jason Paxton. He’s a—”
    â€œPaxton.” Embleton frowned, tugged at his earlobe. “Something about a Paxton in the dispatches on last week’s packet ship.” He peered at Jason. “Ah, yes. You the musician?”
    â€œIt’s my honor, sir, to call myself—”
    â€œDon’t care much for music, myself. Damned infernal noise if you ask me. But the colonel does, and he’s expressed some interest in you.”
    Jason tensed, and he imagined the reaction that would elicit from his Patriot friends. “I’m flattered, sir,” he answered in a carefully uninflected tone.
    â€œBe coming to Charles Town soon?”
    â€œI have no idea, sir. I’ve only just now arrived.”
    â€œWhen you do, look me up. Be a feather in my cap if I can introduce you to Tarleton. Well, then!” Pleased with himself, Embleton remounted. “I’m due at the Martin estate shortly. Tregoning? I’ll be staying the night here and will see you tomorrow morning at the Customs House in Brandborough. We’ll have a cup of tea, get acquainted, and discuss your duties.”
    â€œIt’ll be my pleasure, sir,” Peter answered, saluting.
    â€œYour servant, Paxton.”
    â€œAnd yours, sir,” Jason said.
    Thankful that the encounter was over with, Jason heaved a sigh of relief. And then, as he turned and saw his father’s eyes boring into his and felt the ominous silence directed toward him, he realized that the real encounter had only then, perhaps, begun.

Chapter 5
    It was too hot to dance, but dance they did, and with abandon. From seven to seventy, barefoot and booted, they shouted and kicked, wore away the grass to stubble, and raised a great cloud of dust. Skirts flew, coattails jounced, and wigs skid askew as the musicians, already a bit tipsy, played something that sounded like a mixture of an Irish jig and a Viennese sonata. No less comical than the musicians’ inept attempt at harmonic and rhythmic unity was Buckley’s attempt to follow them. Everything went wrong for him. No matter how hard he tried or how fast he danced, he couldn’t keep up with Colleen. He’d taken the time to return to his carriage, where his slave, a black liveried in black and gold, had attended him, but even with a repowdered wig, fresh perfumes, and ointments, he felt woefully out of control.
    Buckley had benefited from years of practice at society balls, but makeshift musical aggregations of the rustic sort left him flustered. At last, his temper fraying, he dismissed the musicians’ incompetence with a curse, quit the field, and led Colleen to the line of shade on the western edge of the meadow, where on his earlier instructions his slave had laid out a blanket.
    The wine he’d brought, and kept wrapped in damp towels, was refreshingly cool. “Barbarians!” he snorted, wiping his brow and leaning back against a pillow. “They want to govern themselves, they say. Yet how can any such mad rabble have such pretensions? There is a parallel, you know, my dear. The essence of government is order, and if this is an example—”
    â€œI rather enjoy it myself,” Colleen said, the very voice of moderation in comparison to the way she felt.
    â€œBecause you’ve had so little chance to experience the more civilized aspects of society.” His gesture was grand and all-inclusive. “What is this, I ask you? A mob of unschooled rustics bouncing about in a field. No, my dear.” He leaned toward Colleen in his own inimitably pompous manner. “You deserve better. Far better. And only I, and my family,